


Dress Up

by orphan_account



Series: Married to Francis. [3]
Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: M/M, Pining, Role Playing, imaginary alien invasions, imaginary sex pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 09:29:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3972871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Francis has been away for so long.  Edward spices things up with some imaginative role playing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dress Up

**Author's Note:**

> Formerly titled Operation: Sex Pollen

“Are you all right, Ed?” Nancy had asked him. “You look as though you haven’t been sleeping.”

Edward shrugs a reply. It’s true. He doesn’t sleep well when Francis is out of town. Frankie is too young for vaccinations and she’s still catching up from being born ten weeks early. That rules out her travelling for a few more months and Edward isn’t ready leave her behind, to turn their daughter over to the competent league of nannies waiting in the wings. He’s old fashioned, of the opinion that you shouldn’t have kids if you don’t plan to raise them yourself, so he and baby wait and wait.  Edward grows used to the cold side of bed and lack of sleep and sex.

“I miss Francis,” he admits candidly; Nancy’s earned his trust and the President’s. “Between the crisis in Russia and the one in Malaysia, we’ve been apart for almost two weeks. It’s been... _stressful_.”

Nancy smiles at the emphasis on stressful. She’s known Frank for years and can only imagine how stressed the President must be as well.

“Let me watch Frankie,” she offers, tickling the baby’s chin, eliciting a delighted coo. “So you and Frank can get _reacquainted_.”

Now it’s Edward’s turn to blink. He knows Francis's longtime secretary has read him like a book and blushes. He’s ready to get reacquainted all right. Planting a kiss on Nancy’s forehead, he slings the diaper bag off his shoulder before popping Frankie into her lap.

“Take all the time you need,” she laughs. Edward’s already out the door.

*

Francis is due back within the hour and Edward has a plan. He dusts off the sleekest, most Secret Service of his old suits, the suits that were his uniform when he protected the First Family. He’s given them up, given up his trusty sidearm, too, the Beretta now residing, clean and unloaded in Agent Rockland’s safe.

Now he wears the clothing the designers keep sending him despite the fact that he’d rather wear worn jeans or a pair of sweats. Instead of carrying a gun he wields a baby bottle and a baby sling.

Edward tries to ignore the fact that the waistband of his trousers dig into his belly, a belly that hadn’t existed pre-marriage. He digs through his dresser for black socks, eyeing his underwear drawer which he leaves untouched. If all goes well, underwear will only get in the way. He fishes out his old radio, removing the batteries before slipping his earpiece in place, the coiled cable running down the back of his jacket. He shines his badge and buffs the leather of his holster and belt before sliding it on. Edward misses the weight of his firearm; he hurries to the kitchen and spies a banana. It slides into place, not as heavy but anchoring him still. He adjusts himself in the floor to ceiling, three panel mirror in the dressing room that’s attached to the master bedroom. Dusting off a bit of invisible lint, Edward smiles. He can hear the motorcade outside so he pushes his government issued sunglasses into place. Showtime.

*

“Edward?” Francis Underwood strides purposefully into the Residence, coat and briefcase in hand. There’s a bag, too, filled with souvenirs for baby and husband. He hangs up his coat himself having dismissed Miller, the White House Butler. he tries not to feel disappointed, having hoped that Edward and Frankie would be waiting for him.

“Edward?” Francis calls louder. Edward Underwood manifests in front of the President, seemingly out of nowhere, a skill the former Secret Service Agent has long mastered.

“Jesus, son,” gasps Francis, grasping his chest dramatically. His eyes narrow, taking in the splendor that is Edward. “What in tarnation?”

Edward frowns, taking Francis’s elbow. “Mr. President, Sir, I’ve got to get you to safety. It’s aliens, Sir. You’ve got to follow me!”

“Wait, where’s Frankie?”

“She’s safe with Commander Nancy, Sir,” barks Edward, allowing his hand to stray down to rest on the President’s hip. Entranced, Francis obeys, allowing himself to be tugged along, through the bedroom and into the dressing room, not complaining, not with that view. It’s been months since he’s seen Edward in uniform and he’s already half stiff.

Edward block’s Francis’s way, casing the room with his banana held high as he opens each closet door and looks for trouble. Finding none, he closes the door firmly behind them, locking it before guiding his husband to the long leather bench that’s graced the room for half a century. Francis sees that it’s been moved, artfully placed in front of the mirrors. He chuckles, low and hungry, pulling Edward down to kiss him.

“Sir!” Edward jumps back, pushing Francis’s hands away. “The aliens are landing all over the Capital. I’m tasked with keeping you safe.”

“From their ray guns?” drawls Francis, a little put out because he wasn’t kissed.

“No, President Underwood. Sex pollen.”

“Sex pollen?” chokes Francis, his mood improving immediately.

“Yes, Sir. The aliens have dropped tons of it into the atmosphere. They’re rendering us immobile, defenseless, dehydrated.”

“Those bastards!” growls Francis, throwing himself into the story. “But perhaps I’ve already been exposed.”

Edward nods. “I’ll strip you, Sir. If you’ve been contaminated, we’ll know all too soon.”

He begins with Francis’s tie, working steadily down as the President kicks off his shoes and removes his wrist watch and cufflinks. His shirt is open and Edward’s pushed up the tight, white undershirt he’s wearing. “You’re beginning to sweat,” Edward says, worriedly, eyeing Francis’s chest.

“Are your nipples normally sensitive?”

Before Francis can answer, Edward’s twisting the one on the left.

“Ahhh!” yelps Francis, moving away from Edward’s talented fingers. “At least tell me your name, son, before you start doing that.”

“It’s Agent Meechum, Sir. Ed Meechum.” Francis grasps Edward’s hands, sliding them up his chest so that both nipples are covered.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Edward,” he moans, fumbling with his belt and pushing down his pants.

Edward blinks at the swelling scarcely concealed by the President’s silk boxers. He licks his lips unselfconsciously as he reaches down to cup Francis’s groin.

“It’s too late,” Edward shudders, fingers sliding down below the boxer’s waistband, his palms tickled by the wiry hairs of his husband’s groin. “You’ve been compromised, Sir. There’s just one thing to I can do to save you.”

“What’s that?” asks Francis shakily, his hips starting to move as he makes small thrusts into Edward’s hand.

“Protocol 17- E,” Edward tells him. “I’m the only male within a hundred miles who’s been inoculated against the sex pollen. I need vaccinate you, President Underwood. With my dick.”

“Your dick?” asks Francis, marveling at his husband’s ingenuity.

“The vaccine travels through semen, Sir. I’ll need to penetrate you and discharge my load into your rectum. There, the vaccine will flood your blood stream. It’s your only chance!”

“Then do what must be done,” Francis says resolutely. “For the sake of the nation,” he adds, patting Edward’s shoulder.

“God bless America,” Edward swears, removing the bottle of lubricant from his jacket pocket.

*

Francis is always impatient while being prep and that goes double this time; he begins to swear but Edward ignores him, slowly adding a third finger and extra lubricant before finally unzipping the flies of his dark, sleek suit. Francis kneels on the bench, his knees at one end as he rests against his folded hands. He turns his head towards the mirrors, watching as Edward slicks his long, thick cock, so flushed and red against the black of the woolen fabric.

“Hurry, damn you!” growls Francis, who finally moans happily as Edward braces against his sturdy hips, sliding slowly into him.

“Jesus, Mr. President,” whimpers Edward, his thrusts even and steady only as a result of his military training. His rhythm never falters, rubbing against Francis’s prostate.

The President comes first, squeezing down hard against Edward as he convulses, sending semen flying onto the rich, smooth leather below him. Edward follows immediately, snapping his hips as he howls triumphantly, filling his husband’s slick interior.

Removing a small towel from his pocket, Edward wipes his softening cock clean, tucking it back into his trousers before carefully re-zipping his flies. Francis is next, watching patiently as his ass is wiped clean, then the surface of the bench. Edward tosses the soiled towel into the nearby basket that’s already filled with his and Frankie’s unwashed garments. Finally, he removes his sunglasses before taking the banana from the holster, peeling it, breaking off a piece and popping it into Francis’s mouth.

“I’ll take a shower, get dressed and pick up Frankie,” Francis volunteers, nuzzling Edward’s neck. “If you could call the cooks and have them send up dinner in, oh, half an hour.”

“Sure,” yawns Edward, feeling perfectly satisfied. “I’m glad you’re back, Francis.”

“Me too, Honey. Me too.”


End file.
